26 January 2014

red used to be my favorite color. or, one of my favorite colors. pink, orange, red, yellow, turquoise, it changes all the time. I can never really decide. but back in college, it was red and I had this friend who secretly collected red things for me-- a pack of big red gum, a red bottle cap, a red pencil, a red plastic bracelet, a stop sign, an actual stop sign. when he finally gave these things to me, I didn't know what to say. because, well, it was the sweetest thing anyone had ever done for me. it was simple and thoughtful and creative and absolutely romantic. my eighteen year-old self did not know how to receive such a gesture. my eighteen year-old self was overwhelmed with the implications. but lookit, here I am, still talking about it twenty years later. darren, I still have all those red things. I still treasure them. you should know that, wherever you are.

so I have sort of soft spot for red. which I've been thinking about all week long as I've been collecting it-- a set of red numbers here, a bright red door there. a street performer's old band uniform, a pile of favorite red things from around the house. the act of collecting has brought me as much joy as that sweet little collection of reds given to me twenty years ago. at the big downtown library, I spent an hour in the photography section selecting only books with red spines. I wore red on my fingertips, discovered at least a hundred red things in my neighborhood. I began to see little bits of red everywhere I went. red, red, red.

20 January 2014

it was just about this time last year I went looking for color. portland's bleak brand of january left me no choice. I was parched, desperate for it. so I took matters into my own hands, went out looking for it and found it. I'll tell you, it made me pretty happy. so happy, in fact, I forgot how grey everything was, how many more grey months lay ahead of us. for a second, I forgot all about the january uphill. color as antidote, simple as that. the looking for it, the shooting of it, the bringing it home in intangible and tangible ways.

how about I went head to head with the grey and how about I won.

as it turned out, my friend xanthe had been doing the same. 4,910 miles away in london, xanthe was as fed up with the grey as I was and decided tomake her own colour. so I pulled up a chair and I followed along. I drank in every colorful detail of every colour-drenched post. her images and films were like a shot in the arm. it was the mindset, though. the intention behind the images that hooked me. and so began a conversation. the turning of an idea over and over between us, the idea of a color collaboration. and then it was january. again. and then, of course, it was time. pleased to announce:

COLOR//COLOUR: seven weeks of the seeking and the capturing of color in photographs and films.

RED: week one, mon 20th january

YELLOW: week two, mon 27th january

PINK: week three, mon 3rd february

GREEN: week four, mon 10th february

PURPLE: week five, mon 17th february

ORANGE: week six, mon 24th february

BLUE: week seven, mon 3rd march

we'll be hunting color on the streets of portland, oregon and london, england, we'll be looking for it in the corners of our homes and in the details of our neighborhoods. we'll be wearing it on our bodies and painting it on our fingers and toes. we'll be finding it in buckets of flowers and bins of produce at the market, in the aisles of party supply stores and on the shelves of thrift shops. we'll be finding new ways to flood our grey days with color and we'll be documenting and sharing, as much as we can.

there'll be bits and pieces here on the blog and over atxanthe's and then over on instagrambut the real party will be over on our new tumblr COLOR//COLOUR LOVERS, where our photographs and films will totally be color BFFs and live together forever and ever amen. play along, if you like. share wherever you are here on the world wide internets. find us over on instagram. there will be hashtags. the more color, the better, I say. more more more.

17 January 2014

today, she would have been 68. my mom would have been 68. two years ago today, she wore that little crown, blew that little party horn. I sent them in a package, gave her strict instructions, I made sure said instructions were followed. I couldn't be there to celebrate with her but I sent a box full of happy in my place. and I'm thankful that at least there was that. but oh to have hopped on a plane, to have been with her one last birthday.

today, I will buy her favorite flowers. listen to her favorite music, watch her favorite movies. I will wear her favorite silver dogwood ring, her favorite turquoise bracelets. I'll see her everywhere I look, in the shape of my hands, the color and texture of my skin, hear her in the way I speak, feel her in the way I stand at the kitchen sink, weight rested squarely in the left hip, right foot extended. I will see her light in the eyes of ezra and ava. there will be cake, there will be candles. I'll wear the crown she wore, blow the horn she blew that last birthday. then I'll slip them back into that soft yellow envelope, tuck it back into the suitcase that holds all the special things.

10 January 2014

2013, the year of a thousand things. some of them good, really really good, some of them not.

it was the year of big things and small things. of spelling bee victories and shots scored at first basketball games. the year library books, floor picnics and record albums saved us. the year the jar of magical thinking kept us sane. the year of the return to modern dance class, the year my body returned in earnest. it was the year of the avocado, the year of the marionberry, the year of the clementine, the year of coconut oil, coconut oil for everyone, on everything, in everything, forever and ever amen. it was the year of the morning walk, the evening walk and all the walks in between. it was the year of the kind of firsts you don't really want to have: the first birthday she was not here in this world, the first mothers day she was not here in this world, the first summer without her. it was the year I realized I would always be motherless. always. it was the year of paris, the year of france. the year ava got her first passport and traveled with me across the ocean over a thousand little white puffy clouds to a foreign country for the very first time. the year of the mona lisa and the eiffel tower, the year of the parisian fleamarket and the croque-monsieur, of the accordion player and the almond croissant. the year of tiny pink forks and mysteriously wavy hair, of narrow cobblestone streets and dreamy crepes and candy-like strawberries. the year I fell head over heels crazy in love with the metro, the year I lost myself in a million metro stories. it was the year I said yes to big things, to scary things, the year of the happy frenzy with the french kids and the polaroids, the year of my sweet friend irene. it was the year I kept pinching myself to see if things were real. it was the year of broken friendships. of broken promises and heated arguments and words spoken too quickly, too carelessly. the year I let a few old friends go and welcomed some new ones. it was the year of the unorganized basement, the unorganized attic, the unorganized almost everything. the year I vowed to turn it all around. and failed, miserably. it was the year I stopped trying to do everything, be everything. the year I learned to do without, go without. the year I learned to let go.

it was the year of ava the skateboarder and the astronomer, of ezra the lego builder and the ball handler. it was the last year of the single digit birthday and the first year of the teenage birthday. the year ezra turned nine and ava turned thirteen. it was the year I fought the xbox. and lost. the year of six-second video vine-making and marathon minecraft-playing, of kite-flying and origami-folding, of lemonade stand-having and happy thing-making, of road-tripping and adventure-taking. of intricately-constructed backyard forts and first-time yurt camping. the year of sunflower fields and tide pools, of beach caves and concrete city slides, of pinball museums and drive-in movies, of boardwalks and sky candies. the year of astoria and port townsend, the year of santa cruz. the year I fell in love with the hills of butchertown and the streets of oakland. the year of jon and joy and eric and amanda, the year of bob and jen, of alix and greg and wolfie, of jenny and henry. it was the year of many, many humbling sorts of kindnesses, too many to mention here. it was the year of the feast, the year of the famine. the year work came in great fits and starts, the year we wondered how (if) we were going to make it. the year of portrait shoots and wedding shoots and uppercase magazine columns, the year of window-dressings and show-havings, the year of instant magic workshops with middle schoolers (and non-middle schoolers alike). the year of peel-apart film and the smell of fuji chemicals, the year of the zip and the whirrr of the polaroid camera. the year of the ingenious impossible project instant lab, of the weighty twin lens yashica and all those joyful little spools of 120 film. the year of fifty-two sundays and seventy things. it was the year of the photobooth. well, it is always the year of the photobooth. it was the year of the secret project, the secret wish, the secret hope, the secret handshake. the year I learned to say yes, the year I learned to say no. it was the year I walked through fire to get to the other side, the year I learned what it means to forgive, what it really and truly means to forgive. the year I leaned into the love of God and learned that it was (and is), indeed, infinite.